View From the Morgue
by Connecticut Junkie
Summary: Buffy, Spike, and Sunnydale from a Medical Examiner’s POV. And if that doesn’t get you reading, Spike is SHIRTLESS. Ooh yeah. Or, no. Depending on your own POV.


Title: View From the Morgue

Author: Connecticut Junkie

Rating: PG-13 to be safe

Summary: Buffy, Spike, and Sunnydale from a Medical Examiner's POV. And if that doesn't get you reading, Spike is SHIRTLESS. Ooh yeah. Or, no. Depending on your own POV.

Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy's got them and have proven that too many Martis spoil the broth. I made Gordon and gave him a dorky name so he's all mine ha!

Written April 16, 2002 

Note:  While written S6, this was supposed to be set in a vague future where Buffy wasn't quite so morose and had returned to more of her pre-death personality. Unfortunately, my crystal ball did not predict S7's 'Long Winded Speech' Buffy. Leave the yammerings to Hamlet, babe.

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Gordon Lindon had a thing- he would have called it a gift but it wasn't really something bestowed by nature, it was more like the culmination of years of experience. He could look at a person and know exactly how they would look dead. Could picture the bluish-white hue of the skin with a precision almost on par with the computers at the home improvement store that could match paint to anything. He wasn't morbid; in fact, outside of work he was the portrait of lively and fun-loving, hiking in the nearby hills or kayaking on the beach. It was simply the result of his job. He couldn't stop it anymore than a hairdresser could stop picturing new hairstyles on a person.

He also had another thing- again, not a gift but a habit picked up from experience. Some of the newer or less aware citizens of the town who worked with him at the hospital morgue found it curious, should they happen to catch him in the act. Some were angered, others were mocking. It was the stuff of horror movies and cheesy Anne Rice books, a superstition that Gordon shouldn't possess because he was a doctor, for chrissakes, and he should know that it was medically impossible.

Gordon would simply shake his head and mutter, "One day you'll see." Then his hand would hover over the table holding his instruments, passing over the scalpels and the saw and the forceps and the rib spreaders in all their shiny metallic glory and his fingers would pick out the one instrument most coroners did not have. Quick as a cat he would snatch it up, and with his other hand he would produce a small mirror from his pocket, and before any others who may have been present in the room and had never borne witness to this event could question his use of- what the hell was that? A tent stake?  His mirror would flash, the light playing off pale dead skin, and his hand might or might not bear down. And if it did, then there was the sound of wood tearing into dead flesh, followed by the jittery breathing of an unknowing witness.

Those who saw it for the first time- that was what sealed the lips of the skeptical or the critical. One quick blow reduced the body to dust, and Gordon's day would take a turn for the better; one less autopsy to do, and the rest of his shift would fly by now that the cloud of danger had passed through.

This day was no different; he checked the charts of the bodies he'd be working on today, of the stories he'd be discovering through scalpel and chemical analysis. Gretta Martin-Sawyer, 83, heart attack. Probably wouldn't need a staking, but one could never be too careful. Flash of the mirror revealing the now calm, wrinkled features. Roberto Jesus Garcia, 35, whose life ended when he went through the window of his car. Again, not a likely candidate but Gordon still breathed a sigh of relief when the mirror reflected the traumatic mess that had once been Mr. Garcia's face and head. Louis Michael Noble, 20, alchohol and/or drug overdose. Stupid kid, but not a vampire, he determined. Jennifer Marie Radcliffe, 17, trauma to the neck resulting in severing of the carotid arteries and fatal blood loss. The nape of his neck tingled, and for good reason. One drive of his stake and all that remained was dust on the slab. 

John Doe, age approximately late twenties to early thirties, no apparent cause of death. Minor contusions on the face were indicative of a fight, but they were faded, and might have been from two or three days before he died. Gordon frowned and skimmed the report some more. Found lying in alley a few blocks away from the club his daughter kept begging him to let her go to, the Bronze. She kept whining and complaining that all the other parents let their kids go, but she was only fourteen for chrissakes and she didn't know what was out there. He snorted, and felt quite satisfied that Missy wasn't going anywhere near that place for many years. 

But Mr. Doe wouldn't be going there either. He practically screamed vampire- bleached blonde hair the likes of which hadn't been cool since he'd taken his wife to a Billy Idol concert back in '86 when they'd just been dating. And god, the black nailpolish alone was a dead give away, no pun intended. He smirked a little at his thoughts. If he was right, then that meant he only had three autopsies on his schedule and he could take a nice, long lunch and maybe even get out early…although this being Sunnydale six more might come in while he was out getting a bite. You just never knew.

Mr. Doe lacked a reflection just as he lacked a name. Gordon raised the stake up high- a lot of momentum was actually needed for the wood to penetrate through the flesh, past the ribs and into the heart, and it wasn't just like those movies or t.v. shows where a tiny little jab does the trick- but his downswing was interrupted by the very loud sound of the doors being flung open with great force. The sound of the metal doors clanging against the wall echoed in the room and almost drowned out his curse. What the fuck was this, the E.R.? There was no need for such urgency- no one down here was going anywhere.

"What the hell?" he asked, the question equal parts pertaining to the nature of the intrusion as well as the tiny little blonde girl who created it. He took in her trendy outfit, spiky little boots, and earrings that glinted even in the dim light. "Jesus Christ, don't tell me this is the new place to go clubbing. You're not supposed to be here, this isn't a rave. Or is this some kind of dare your friends put you up to?"

The girl- though now that he got a better look at her he realized she wasn't as young as he initially thought, more like early twenties than late teens- saw the stake in his grasp and her hand flew out to stop him. "No! He's not a vampire. Well, he is but he's not the kind you should stake." Then she paused and looked pensive. "Actually, he is but if anyone's staking him it's me so just let me wake his sorry, undead ass up and we'll be out of your way."

Gordon eyed her suspiciously. "He your boyfriend?" She didn't quite look like a vampire, but she wasn't very tan and you can never be too careful.

Her nose wrinkled and she frowned, as if the thought of this John Doe as her boyfriend was more repulsive than hanging around in a room filled with dead bodies- especially that of Mr. Garcia, who's massive head injuries were on full display. "Yeah, he wishes. Anyhow, I need him unalive and undusty." She smiled her best smile, the one that usually melted the wills and hearts of men. 

Gordon was only partially affected, because it wasn't like she was asking him to buy her a drink, she was asking him to let her take a vampire out of his morgue.

"You obviously know what he is."

"Yeah, and it's a really long story and I'm slightly out of breath from running over here. Plus, I shouldn't be telling you this but unlike everyone else you seem to know what's going on. Spike," she waved a hand over at the unconscious vampire, "doesn't hurt people. He's…well, let's just say he's special." In her mind she added the obligatory, *small school bus special.* "We were fighting a…Urkle? No that's not right…Yarkle! A Yarkle demon and Spike got knocked out and I chased the demon for a good while and when I caught up we had this marathon of a fight. By the time I got back to the alley where Spike'd been the police were clearing out. Apparently they thought he was dead…really dead dead. He's just unconscious. Got the crap beat out of him. See, Yarkle's emit this high pitched whine, that only vamps and dogs can hear so Spike didn't do too well in the fight. You should have seen it, he was grabbing his ears and cursing, all 'Bloody hell!' and moaning about the pain." The young woman grinned for the first time that night. "It was *really* funny."

Gordon thought she might have been on speed. 

"Christ, Slayer, have some sympathy." Gordon whirled around to face the voice. It was coming from the John Doe…Spike? Was that what she called him? He was sitting up, white sheet pooling around his waist, and holding his head in his hands. 

"Good, you're awake. Now I won't have to carry you." Some small part of Gordon noticed how her voice had gone from almost excited to icy.

"And here I was, so hoping you'd put your hot little hands all over my body."

Gordon cleared his throat. "I don't know what the hell is going on here, but please just take your vampire and leave." Now that the vampire was awake, he sure as hell wasn't going to try and stake it. 

"I'd love to, mate." Spike hopped off the slab and scratched his stomach. "Bloody hell, I'm hungry. And my ears are still ringing."

"Spike! Put some clothes on!"

Spike shrugged. "Nothing she hasn't seen before," he said confidentially to Gordon, then raised his eyebrow and smiled at the young woman. Gordon failed to catch the flaming blush that spread across her cheeks.

"Such a pig," she muttered, refusing to look at him. 

"The clothing is over there- but I'm afraid it was cut up to so they could remove it. Shoes should still be intact though."

He thought he heard the vampire whimper as he made a mad dash to the table Gordon had indicated. It was quickly followed by a shout of joy as the vampire held something black up. "If you wankers had cut up my coat, you'd all be dead, chip be damned."

Gordon didn't understand that statement fully, but he definitely understood the 'dead' part of it. "Just…go now. Please."  

The vampire shrugged into the coat and shoved his boots on. "C'mon, luv. Sun's probably up so looks like we have a fun sewer adventure ahead of us." He strolled out the door as if it was perfectly normal for a corpse to just get up and leave the morgue whenever he felt like it. The young woman followed him, and Gordon heard a snipe from her that sounded something like, "*You* get the sewers all to yourself, since I'm not the one allergic to sun." She was definitely not a vampire then, and he was curious all of a sudden as to how she got herself in this position.

The doors closed behind them, but a second had barely passed before they swung open and her blonde head poked in.

"Doctor, what you're doing here- checking the bodies- is really smart." He saw a dark shadow flit across her face, and there it was, as sharp in his mind as if he was really seeing it. The golden hair dulled, the lips blue instead of bubblegum pink. Her large hazel eyes staring, unblinking, pleading with him in silence to not let her death be ignored. He blinked hard, and his vision was normal again. "Keep it up, and if you can, get the other people who work here to do the same. This town's kind of crazy." And with a tiny smile, she disappeared, leaving Gordon Lindon standing in the middle of the morgue holding a stake in his hand, and wondering if this town was even crazier than he had thought it was.

-end-


End file.
